“I wonder if he looked at Anarres and said, why does it have to be so poor, why does it have to be in famine, why is their sexuality so constrained, what other sorts of anarchy could you have?”
“What a fascinating thought,” I said. “And also how brilliant of him to show all that complexity of choice through the eyes of someone who isn’t happy with it.”
“There would be people who drifted about like that even in paradise,” Wim said. “Bron’s always looking for something he can’t have, sort of by definition.”
“Why did Bron—” I started.
“Time to go now, Mori,” Greg said.
“See you after Christmas,” Wim said as I got up, carefully.
On the other side of the table, Keith and Hussein were still arguing about Princess Leia.
THURSDAY 20TH DECEMBER 1979
I can’t believe I’m leaving here tomorrow. Suddenly it seems so soon. We had to clear out our lockers this morning. I wasn’t expecting that. In addition to my bag and the satchel and the neat anonymous case I came with, I have six carrier bags of books and two of Christmas presents. I had to go down to the laundry, the first time I’ve ever been there. The school employs someone full time to wash and iron our stupid uniforms. Usually they’re delivered back to our dorms and put on the ends of our beds, and I’d scarcely thought about it before. But today Deirdre didn’t have all her shirts, and we need to take everything home. She wanted me to come with her, so off we went to the bowels of the building to a room with six heaving washing machines and four roaring tumble-dryers and a girl only a year or two older than we are pulling the clothes out of one machine and tossing them into the other. I’d hate us if I were her. It was hot in there today; I can’t imagine it in June.
Deirdre’s going to Limerick for Christmas. There’s really a place called Limerick! Of course, as soon as she said, I couldn’t help saying “There was a young lady from…” but I stopped as soon as I saw her face.
I’m all ready to go as soon as Daniel comes for me tomorrow. I can’t wait.
FRIDAY 21ST DECEMBER 1979
First thing this morning was the Prizegiving. I won a copy of W. H. Auden’s Selected Poems for English, and Isaac Asimov’s Guide to Science for chem, and Winston Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples for history. As everyone who got over ninety in anything got a book for it, it rather dragged on. I suspect Miss Carroll’s hand in the choice of books, which may mean that the Churchill isn’t as dire as it looks. Then the sports prizes were handed out, at even greater length. They let me sit down for assemblies, which is nice, but as everyone else is standing it does mean I can’t see, not that I especially want to. The teachers, who are lined up at the sides of the hall, can see me quite easily if they look, so I don’t dare read. Looking at everyone’s backs in their identical uniforms I can compare heights and wrinkles and how their hair falls down their backs, but that’s about all. It’s surprising how much variety there is in something that’s at first glance identical, a row of uniformed backs. I gave the girls in the row ahead marks for posture and neatness, and mentally rearranged them by height and by hair colour.
Scott won the cup, in a narrow victory over Wordsworth. I’m supposed to be very excited about this but as far as I’m concerned it’s right up there with arranging people by the shades of their hair.
I went to the library afterwards to give Miss Carroll her chocolates. She seemed very touched to have them. She gave me what I’m sure is a book, wrapped.
I found Deirdre and gave her the soap box. I hadn’t wrapped it because I hadn’t thought to buy wrapping paper, but I put it in a pretty bag from the shop where I bought the scarves and things. She didn’t open it, but she thanked me very nicely. She gave me a thin wrapped present. It also feels like a book. I wonder what on earth it could be? I’ll have to read it and say I like it whatever it is.
Then it was all down to waiting for cars. Some girls weren’t being picked up until this evening, poor dabs, but Daniel came for me just at one, not the first, but quite early in the process. Everyone was rushing about and shrieking even worse than normal. I’m sure he thought it was Bedlam.
Daniel drove me back to the Old Hall in time for tea—very dry mince pies, almost as bad as school food. His sisters were delighted about Scott winning the cup. They opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. I thought it was horrible, and the bubbles got up my nose. I’d had it before, at Cousin Nicola’s wedding, and I didn’t like it then either. Daniel offered to mix mine with orange juice and make something called a Buck’s Fizz, but I declined. If there was one thing that was going to make it worse it was horrible orange juice. Really, I only like to drink water. Why do people have such a problem with that? It comes out of the tap for free.